Ok, so I've finally decided to post something of my own on here. I'm working on a few ideas, and this is the first little drabble I've actually finished so far. I love a bit of angst, you'll probably come to learn that, and the state of Castiel in 2014 is just one of my favourite scenarios for heart-wrenching feelings to spill out. I'll probably end up writing more of Future Cas / Future Dean…y'know, in the future. Anyway, warnings for light drug use, the obvious aforementioned angst and some boy-boy kissing.
Please let me know how I did with this, I have a few one-shots in the pipeline and hopefully some longer stories, I'd love a bit of feedback to help guide me. Thanks!
The past months were hardly what Dean would have called 'easy' – not by a long shot.
But the knowledge that the apocalypse was imminent, and that Sam and he were central characters in this fucked up mess, was finally catching up to him.
He longed for the simpler days, when the biggest problems they had to face were rogue and slightly-more-powerful-than-average demons. The entire Azazel affair was almost…desirable, compared with this.
They broke the first Seal. They broke the last. They had been chosen to stand centre-stage as angel-powered puppets in this apocalyptic theatre of the damned.
He remembered his future self in a ravaged 2014, as exposed to him by Zachariah – how the man bore no resemblance to who Dean thought he was. He had become, in just a couple of short years, a ruthless soldier who appeared to value killing Lucifer over the safety of his surviving allies. His attitude wasn't so much selfish as frighteningly detached; walking uninhibited to his own suicide with no regard for his camp-mates.
Was he really destined to become that? That one-track-minded and that harsh?
Seeing the way his future-self had disregarded the ones who had stuck by him through everything; the way he brushed off offers of help, rejected his companions, and the way he blindly killed the infected without so much as a second thought… it hurt. Future Dean seemingly didn't care, or didn't even notice, that he was pushing everyone away. It made Dean curl inside himself and wilted his spirit.
Camp Chitaqua haunted him in his dreams, even returned to the present as he was. Murdering Sam in the act of killing Lucifer had taken priority over everything. He was determined not to let that happen.
And Castiel…
Dean pressed his palms against his eyes, a heavy sense of shame falling over him like a suffocating blanket, his entire being filling with a weary exhaustion. He felt guilty – why did corrupting and shunning Castiel warrant more feelings of self-loathing than the treatment of any other future-ally? A mental war raged within Dean's mind, and either way he was going to emerge the losing party.
Cast…righteous, confused, loyal Cas. The one who had stuck by Dean through all his messed up decisions, his spiral into the angry and battle-weary leader; the man who chose to betray the Heavens and fall from grace to remain at his side as a fellow soldier, fighting with him for a cause they both believed in. His sacrifices to stand by the Winchesters – Dean knew in his gut that they towered high above all those made by the others. His allies, his friends – they sacrificed a life with their families, signed over their safety. Castiel…he gave up so much more.
The weight the angel's choices carried, the consequences of his actions – he didn't just follow his heart in a flurry of emotions. No, it wasn't that simple. He was not a simple human with a simple human family and a pre-apocalypse life on earth. He severed ties with Heaven, broke his ranks and disobeyed the highest of orders. He developed a mind so much more than that of a warrior; choosing to relinquish the very powers which defined and guided him, all in the name of aiding a new cause - serving a new leader. His experiences led him to feel and to hurt – thanks to the Winchesters, he developed free will. The most righteous, the most naïve and blindly obedient, the one with the most to lose…and he put his new-found faith in Dean.
And Dean had discarded him.
The future version of the former-angel had made Dean want to sob, scream, punch something – anything to relieve the gut-churning guilt. More than anything he had wanted to kick the shit out of his future-self for what he had allowed to happen, and for how little he seemed to react to it. It seemed that every time he closed his eyes and slept, the memory of the future was waiting in the shadows to assault his dreams.
…
Dean stands, frozen in the doorway of the ramshackle cabin, watching as his closest friend downs some nameless pills and offers him some suspicious-looking powder. The angel - once redolent of power and grace, an embodiment of everything righteous and the pinnacle of divine craftsmanship – is now sitting in front of him on a bunch of throw pillows in a shack, ravaging his brain with a deluge of drugs, alcohol and mindless sexual encounters. His hair is unkempt and dishevelled, his face, covered in a scruffy layer of stubble, houses eyes ringed with sleepless nights, and his clothes are ill-fitting in size and style.
Without even having to speak, he sees Castiel's expression change as recognition dawns on him. The slight widening of his hazy-blue eyes, the disbelieving twitch of the corner of his lips accompanied by a knot in his brow.
"You…you're not Dean, are you?"
"I…" it takes Dean a few moments to find his words from shock. "I'm from another time. The past." "Zachariah?" Cas enquires with a knowing tone. Dean numbly nods his head.
"He wants me to see…this. So I'll say yes to Michael." "He knows what he's doing." Castiel mutters with a frown, preparing a blue glass bong as he speaks. "He wants you to see Sam." This time, it wasn't a question.
Again, Dean nods. Castiel seems at a loss for how to continue.
"So, past-Dean…" Cas says, looking back up at him from his drug paraphernalia. "Would you care to join me?" Dean's eyes flit from Castiel's to the bong he gestures towards, then back to the face of the man before him.
His face has grown much more gaunt in his fall from grace. He looks to have aged 7 or 8 years, not a mere 2. His shaggy hair is less healthy-looking, his skin no longer looks resilient. Dean wonders which factor has played more of a part in this wrecking of the angel – the stress of the apocalypse looming and all the fighting? The stress and depression that would undoubtedly accompany an abandoning of Heaven? The drugs, booze and orgies? Or the gnawing sense of betrayal that came with abandonment by the man he had trusted.
A tight knot forms in Dean's gut, and he takes a seat on a pillow opposite Cas out of a sense that he somehow owes him. Castiel utters a sudden huff of laughter, making Dean's eyes jump nervously towards him as he makes contact with the pillow. It is unnerving to hear that noise come from the angel's mouth. Dean continues to watch him in awe as a smile – a real smile, all teeth and dimples – passes Cas' mouth and then quietly leaves.
Cas lights the small grassy pile in the bong, inhales deeply, and passes it to the man opposite him. Dean takes it, still enraptured by the dramatic differences between this drug-addled burnout and the angel he knows. Sensing Dean's scrutiny, Castiel looks up at him, a perverse caricature of the real angel.
"What?" Cas asks, taking the bong again.
"You…laughed." Dean instantly feels ridiculous. Castiel smiles again, but it is weaker this time and doesn't feel genuine.
"It's just…" Cas pauses to inhale, "…it's funny. How different you are now. It's so easy to tell, just by looking at you…you're not…you." Dean is about to comment on the way Castiel's speech has become muddled, when it suddenly washes over him too. A warm, fuzzy feeling in his brain that makes him instantly smile to himself, all warm grassy fields and hot rays of sun in summer and the giddy feeling of letting go of your consciousness.
"You would never accept drugs." Cas muses, watching Dean's stoned smirk with fascination and a small smile of his own returning. His face exudes warmth, Dean notices, and he starts to wonder if maybe Cas has enough remnant of angel juice left in him to be his own energy source. Not truly human, but maybe he's like…like a three-quarters-human energy-saving light bulb. Warmth…so warm. Maybe he can sustain himself on his own light and warmth for a few years yet, until it all peters out and he becomes wholly human, and he…
Dean stops this train of thought. He doesn't want to think about Castiel – or whatever remains of him – dwindling away.
Despite the haggard stubble and dark circles and drug-tainted eyes, he is now radiating something Dean can't put his finger on. The Cas he knows is more or less void of human emotion, and barely getting to grips with the ones he does experience; a morally upright but confused being who clings fiercely to his rules and loyalties, who does not even understand most of the inane things humans do, never mind partake in them. This man before him - in the same skin and body with the same blue eyes – is smiling broadly, snorting and smoking and staging sex parties. The differences are astounding to Dean, even under the influence of mind-altering substances.
Dean realises he has been staring at Castiel for the entirety of his inner musings, but can't bring himself to care. He finds himself holding eye contact with the angel as he inhales another hit and passes the bong back. Cas takes the instrument, also keeping his eyes fixed on Dean's. Dean notices, with a strange and unsettling pang in his chest, that they are the same stunning shade of blue. The drugs have had an effect on wearing him down and dulling them ever-so-slightly, yes, but despite the incomprehensible changes he has gone through, they still shine like sapphires in a barren, grey landscape.
"What have I done to you, Cas." The words tumble from Dean's mouth before he realises he is speaking aloud. It is not so much a question as a miserable statement, draped in all the regret that has pooled in his heart and is now storming to the surface. Dean begins to regret speaking.
"You gave us all hope, Dean." The angel answers with that tiny hint of a smile, his eyes softening as they evaluate Dean's face.
"I've…ruined you." Dean's eyes do a quick scan of Castiel's form. "I know I can't take it back, Cas. I can't fix things the way they are now, for you…but listen to me…I'll stop it happening, you hear me? I'll go back and I'll…" Dean feels his throat tighten, his eyes and nose tingling as he studies the very human man before him. "I'll never be him. I won't let you fall, Cas…not for me."
At Dean's last words, Castiel's drug-pinkened eyes go through a miniscule transformation.
"I'm afraid it's too late for that, Dean." The small smile is gone now, replaced with a glassy expression of sadness, misery and hurt. Dean's chest tightens when he grasps the quiet insinuation, steeped in so much more than the image of ruined wings and shattered grace. It pains Dean even further to watch these emotions flickering on the angel's face; a bleak prophecy of the misery he is destined to inflict on all those he loves.
"But I…"
Dean is cut off by Cas leaning across the cushions and pressing his lips firmly onto his own. A startled yelp forms in the back of Dean's throat, but it is crushed as the former angel cups a hand around the back of his neck, preventing him from pulling away. He props himself up with his free hand, the bong forgotten, attempting to stop Dean retreating from him. Dean manages to wrench his face free.
"Cas, what the fuck are you doing…what…"
Dean's head is once again tugged to Castiel's mouth, but this time it receives a small and tentative touch of lips. The frantic tug and force is gone, replaced by the soft resting of lips on lips; caring, gentle and apologetic. Castiel pulls away before Dean has the chance to be the one to reject it again. He doesn't sit back on his cushion. Instead he opts for staying an inch from Dean's face with his head bent forwards, seemingly fighting the urge to lean his forehead against Dean's. They share breath, Castiel's grip on the back of the hunter's neck significantly loosened. Dean doesn't resume trying to drag himself backwards.
Castiel hovers in the tiny space between them, their noses almost brushing. Dean sees the angel's eyes re-open to look up at him through hooded lids and thick lashes. His breath tickles Dean's lips, hot and pleading.
"Don't, Cas."
Dean is surprised at this reaction. While it is true they are both intoxicated, he expected himself to react with a lot more shock and perhaps even anger.
"You feel it, Dean. I know you do." A crack appears in the angel's façade, and for a second Dean thinks he might see tears forming there. "You said you would fix it. So, fix it."
Castiel leans forward again, slowly and cautiously, before touching their lips together again for the briefest of moments and evaluating Dean's reaction; testing the water despite having already leapt in.
Dean can barely breathe. His stomach is threatening to fall out of him, his heart is attempting to break through his rib cage like a frightened bird…and at the same time, everything is still. The drugs are steadily dancing through his system, and the panic he would expect to feel when sober is non-existent in his calmed mind. He leans forward without hesitation, capturing Castiel's lips in his own.
The sigh that comes from the former angel is wrought with misery, hope, happiness and longing all at once. Dean mirrors his posture by bringing his own hand up to catch the back of Castiel's neck, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. As he descends on top of the smaller man, resting him gently against the pillows and settling over him, he feels Cas' other hand join the first behind his neck. The hands work themselves desperately into his short hair, gripping his scalp and holding his head firmly in place as they move their mouths together.
This is just…what the fuck is this?
Fuck…fuck.
Dean feels himself choke as he grasps desperately at Castiel's ridiculously ill-fitting shirt, balling it up in his fists. He is unable to distinguish the emotions he feels coursing through him – only that his heart is thrumming and his blood is pounding violently through his veins. His inner thoughts highlight that he should be panicking more, but an invisible blanket shrouds his mind, shielding him from feeling any emotion too potently. There is fear, there is panic, and there is doubt…and they are all blissfully muted, shut up by a steady pulsing of calm detachment.
The vague confusion melts away from Dean's mind after a fraction of a second. This is new, bizarre and unchartered territory - not just that he is kissing a man, but the fact that it's Cas…and yet, he doesn't give way to the jumbled thoughts, not fully. Through his detached mind and distant body, Dean is pretty sure he's grateful for the muted-ness and disinhibition that come with this territory.
Even if he could disentangle the mess of numbness and slight fear and realise what he's doing and who he's doing it with, Dean is not sure if he would stop. For all the feelings of confusion and apprehension, there are equal measures of self-hatred, misery and…something else that he can't quite identify. It is smouldering in his chest like angry embers, growing ever stronger with each soft swipe of tongue against tongue and threatening to break through the hazy shield, potent as it is in all its sobering glory.
He suddenly manages to identify it. He feels a distinct brand of affection towards the angel, he supposes he has always known this. But also…protective of him. What a ridiculous concept, Dean thinks. Feeling the need to wrap cotton wool around a being so powerful he could annihilate anything with the click of his fingers.
Well at least, he once could.
His mind is in conflict with himself. The protectiveness and those other gut-emotions he is feeling towards the angel…it's because he sees the vulnerability there, where there was once power. But Dean knows he is the cause of this transformation – this fall from grace and emotional turmoil. How can he protect his friend, when the monster he needs protected from is the same one nuzzling against him?
And so Dean stops thinking. He never got on well with his own thoughts. Instead he pours his conflicted, raw emotions into the man attached to him, and buries his feelings as deep as he can.
Dean feels desperation grow inside him with every passing second that he spends kissing his friend, his ally; his angel. He begs with his body language – begs for forgiveness he doesn't think he deserves, begs for acceptance, and begs for Castiel to make this entire mess evaporate. He wants nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare that has become his life; to be whisked away in a flurry of angel-mojo to the furthest corner of Heaven, to be free to lie there on some pillows with soft drugs and the scent of Castiel's incense to soak up all his senses.
He breaks away from the angel's mouth, still resting firmly over him, and watches his face. Castiel looks troubled, drained and hopeless, and Dean absorbs this look with dread settling in his stomach.
"There's more to this, isn't there?" The hunter is afraid he already knows the answer.
"Yes." Castiel answers plainly, averting his gaze to somewhere on the floor. He lets his hands slowly fall from Dean's head, and Dean takes it as a sign to climb off of him. He lies beside Castiel on the cushions, on his back but with his face titled towards Cas.
"We…I mean, you and…future-me…we were…" "Yes." Castiel's eyes stay on that random patch of floor, and Dean worries he might shed tears if he sees that raw pain in the angel's eyes one more time. "
The stress on the last word breaks something in Dean. The apathy dripping from the angel's voice is almost soul-crushing, and the knowledge that Dean is the cause of such pain in someone he cares about so deeply is almost more than he can stand. He exhales shakily, trying to keep the grip on his tears in check; trying to keep the emotion-muting blanket wrapped tightly around his consciousness. He mentally chides himself that he will not cry in front of the angel, though it is getting steadily more difficult.
Dean raises himself up on his elbow to better watch Castiel's face.
"I swear to God, Cas." he begins, not knowing how he can possibly articulate the hatred he feels for himself. "I will make this right. I will never…hurt you." Against his will, his own hand reaches to Castiel's face, lightly brushing down the stubble-covered cheek and jaw line. Castiel finally brings his glassy eyes back to Dean, staring at him with desperate hope and a desire to believe him.
"I don't doubt that you will try." Castiel replies, his hand slotting itself gently over the one Dean has on his face and starting a gentle stroking with his thumb.
"I'll try until it kills me, Cas. This isn't you. And that, out there? That isn't me. This won't beat us."
Castiel shows the weak smile again, and it desperately tugs at something inside Dean. He still lies facing the angel, watching him intently. Castiel stays lying on his back, his attention focussed away from Dean near the door.
Dean senses that Cas has not given up on the future version of himself; it is evident that nothing will make him leave. Not even the withdrawal of the man that caused him to disobey in the first place. The loss of that man's affection hadn't deterred him. Castiel was determined not to abandon Dean, even if Dean had all but ruined him.
Dean doesn't dare ask what exactly happened between them, or how it came to end. He can't take much more distressing information about the man he has become.
Dean begins to trace lines on Castiel's thigh with his forefinger, staring absently. Castiel doesn't even turn his body to face Dean – he just looks, curiously, then gazes away again.
"You loved me once, you know." Castiel says nonchalantly, still lying on his back and facing his head away from Dean. "And I can't deny that…I loved you too." Dean stops tracing shapes on the angel's leg and minutely stiffens his posture.
"You still do." It was not a question, but a pained statement of realisation.
After a brief and cautious pause, the angel replies.
"Of course."
The soft confession is accompanied by a weak, faint smile, seemingly taking all the effort the drained angel has in his body to muster up what should be a positive gesture, but instead is a ghost of a smile steeped in sadness.
Dean turns away from the angel, withdrawing his hand, and lies curled up facing the opposite wall. He doesn't attempt to quell the tears when they form this time; there is no point. He almost welcomes the guilt-ridden burn in his chest.
…
Dean awoke in 2012, the memory of Lucifer gallivanting around in Sam's skin fresh in his mind. That, and the smell of lavender incense and cannabis lingering in his nostrils.
He hated the Camp Chitaqua dream.
Castiel arrived as he usually did, with the sound of fluttering feathers and a curt greeting to Dean to announce his presence. He began rambling about the latest updates on the war in Heaven, the activities of Michael and the plans that were underway. He threw out yet another theory on preserving the brothers from becoming puppets, and asked at last where Sam actually was.
After more than a couple of seconds of silence, Castiel's head cocked minutely to the right. He realised Dean was staring at him without answering.
"Dean?"
At the sound of the questioning tone, Dean apparently snapped out of his train of thought.
"Sorry, Cas. You gotta give a guy more time to wake up in the morning." Castiel seemed to evaluated this response and approve of it. He nodded and sat on a chair in the room, facing Dean.
"I'll wait here."
"…Okay." Dean frowned at him, and forced himself not to think about that night. Obsessing over the details of something that hadn't technically happened yet – was never going to happen – was a waste of his energy. "I'll just undress in the bathroom, then." Castiel didn't look away from him.
"Very well."
Dean shook his head in amused disbelief. The angel's lack of social skill was actually somewhat endearing. He padded to the bathroom and shut the door behind him, seeing no need to lock it.
It had been 6 weeks since Zachariah had transported Dean to the future – 6 weeks since Dean had learned the painful truth about his own corruption, his brother's downfall, and Castiel's true feelings for him; feelings he may well be nursing already. He had no way of knowing – no way of cracking through the angel's emotionless iron façade.
He never did mention the specifics of Camp Chitaqua to the angel on the other side of the bathroom door.